


Plot Devices

by entanglednow



Category: Leverage
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-26
Updated: 2010-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 16:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eliot is not Brian Westwood, or Jason Bourne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plot Devices

"My ID says my name is Brian Westwood."

Hardison tries to take said ID from him. But, Eliot does something with his fingers that tells Hardison he's not getting it, no matter how much he twists it.

He gives up.

"Your name is _not_ Brian Westwood, because that's a fake ID," he points out. For what he's pretty sure is the fourth, maybe the fifth, time.

"Looks pretty damn convincing to me," Eliot says. Because Eliot's suspicion is apparently bone deep and something that's decided to stick around when the rest of his memory left the premises.

"And this is the part where I learn that my gift is obviously a curse too," Hardison admits. "Because I'm just that good."

"Still looks like a real ID," Eliot insists.

"Of course it looks real, it pretty much is real, for a specific definition of real. It's just not yours," Hardison explains again, in a way he still thinks is perfectly understandable.

"Brian Westwood apparently has insurance," Eliot points out, like he's just remembered. Like being in a hospital and having doctors poke you and treat you like your fake identity somehow counts.

"Because I plan for everything," Hardison insists. "But, seriously, even I couldn't exactly have planned for you having - I'm sorry but having pretty damn specific head trauma. This doesn't happen in real life. This is movie amnesia. This is like fake amnesia that writers make up. People do not just spontaneously go all Jason Bourne every time they get smacked in the head. Even though you are a lot like Jason Bourne in this scenario -"

Eliot's mouth draws into a tight line.

"Excuse me, did you just call my terrible head trauma a plot device?"

"No," Hardison protests. "I was just suggesting that there were other forms of head trauma more likely than this. Concussion for instance that would have maybe just made you a little woozy and we could have gone back to Nate and you could have glared at everyone and Parker could have spent the whole afternoon upside down making you feel sick. We could have made sure you didn't fall asleep. There would be no arguing about whether you existed and whether you were Eliot or not. Everyone would have been happy." He realises he's flailing his arms around like an idiot and makes himself stop.

"Brian," Eliot insists again. But, damn it he's just being obnoxious now, Hardison recognises that little jut of his jaw like a facial tic.

"Seriously, you're doing this on purpose now. You don't even know me and you're acting exactly the same as you usually do, how do you even do that?"

Eliot glares at him.

"I didn't exactly think leaving you in a hospital full of strange people was the best plan. Considering a) you're a criminal, for a wide and flexible definition of _criminal_ and b) your ability to suddenly and violently incapacitate anything which you consider a threat with your kung fu and ninjutsu fu and all the other many times of fu that you're a master of."

Eliot raises an eyebrow.

"Because you are a master of many and you would not hesitate to go all Jason Bourne if you thought you were in any danger. In fact, if you thought I had some sort of horrible agenda I would be unconscious on the floor right now, in terrible unconscious pain. Instead I worry about you and I track you down, offer to take you home - and, yes, I am aware in this situation that I'm apparently the hot German woman, which isn't ideal, but sometimes you have to follow a thought to the end."

Eliot looks at him, that steady considering look and Hardison thinks maybe there's a chance he's convincing him, just a little bit.

"You're sure I'm the one that got hit on the head?" Eliot asks flatly.

"Ok, ok, fine you want proof," Hardison says desperately. Because he totally wasn't going to go there. He wasn't going to bring it up. Because complicated head trauma is traumatic enough.

He very carefully gestures at the curve of Eliot's shoulder.

"There's a scar there, small, pale like it's old -" he moves his hand lower. "There, and there and what looks like an old puncture wound there." He prods at Eliot's left forearm, then the side of his stomach. "And there's a long scar here and a bullet hole there. With an exit hole on the other side." He stops because he's aware any lower and he'll be gesturing in the region of - well, he's pretty sure that's not acceptable touching while Eliot's currently missing a few important parts.

Hardison clears his throat instead.

"I could go on, but I think you get the point," he says flatly.

Eliot looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

"That's some memory you have," he says carefully.

Hardison grunts something that admits to nothing.

"So, now that I've made everyone wildly uncomfortable will you please come back to the bar with me and talk to Nate, who will probably make more sense and definitely won't make any weird sexual advances."

Eliot grunts and reluctantly lets Hardison take his ID.

"I didn't want to be a Brian anyway."

Hardison very carefully pats him on the back. It's a good sign that Eliot doesn't do anything unexpected.

They get ten feet before something seems to occur to him.

"Who the hell is Jason Bourne?" Eliot demands.


End file.
